The Dead: Vengeance of Memory

by Mark Oldfield

  Ricci stumbled in broken motion along the bar, feebly clutching at the gleaming black marble, trying to stay on his feet. Masias watched, open-mouthed, as Guzmán turned to him. Another flash in the darkness; a staccato image of Masias clutching his chest, his legs buckling beneath him as he fell.

  Ricci clung to the bar like a man on a sinking ship, his mouth opening and closing as he called for help, his words swept away by the music. Guzmán shot him in the back of the head. There would be no open casket at that funeral.

  On the floor to Guzmán’s right, Masias lay on his back, his dead eyes staring up at the whirling lights. Guzmán leaned on the rail at the top of the stairs, peering through the kaleidoscopic patterns of light at the dancers below, moving like the sea at night, striped by roving strobes and spotlights. He holstered the Browning and went down into the ripe, sensuous warmth, taking his time as he worked his way across the dance floor to the entrance.

  By the door, the staff were dealing with a woman who had just thrown up onto the red nylon carpet. Guzmán stepped round her, smiling indulgently. The harassed doormen ignored him, though Guzmán heard one asking where the fucking Arab was. That was a theological question now and he left them to it.

  The rain had stopped and the air was soft and cool. Autumn air, a subtle promise of winter. Outside El Topless, a line of taxis stretched along the kerb. In the square, the lights glowed bright around the Cine Callao, advertising a film, Laberinto de Pasiones by someone called Almodóvar. Guzmán turned away and went down the street to the small bar next to Garcia’s grocery. The heat of the club had given him a thirst.

  He sat at the counter and ordered a beer. In the dark-flecked mirror behind the bar, he saw his reflection: a hard-faced man wearing a well-cut suit. The beer was cold and refreshing and he ordered another, reflecting on the image looking back at him from the speckled glass. A model of respectability to the casual observer, though whatever his appearance might convey, it was just that, an appearance. He was but one thing now and it had nothing to do with respectability. He was Guzmán. A man forged in the fires of war and its murderous aftermath. That war was long past. It was the war to come that concerned him now. The war he had just started.

  In the sudden draughts of damp air that floated in when the street door opened, he smelled wood smoke. He looked into the mirror and smiled, lifting his glass in a toast to himself. As he put down the glass, he inhaled the aroma of burning wood again.

  It was the smell of bridges burning.

  CHAPTER 20

  MADRID 2010, PENSIÓN PARAÍSO, CALLE DE CARMEN

  ‘Good morning, Señor Sancho.’ Espartero placed the tray on the table next to Sancho’s chair. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t be more comfortable in bed?’

  Sancho shook his head. ‘I’m fine right here, amigo. This way I can see anyone who comes in that front door.’ He gave Espartero a complicit wink. ‘And if I can see them, I can shoot them.’

  ‘A practical philosophy no doubt,’ Espartero said solemnly.

  ‘That’s me,’ Sancho chuckled, ‘a philosopher.’

  ‘How’s the wound?’

  ‘Not too bad. Your Kraut doctor did a good job. You got any more contacts like him?’

  ‘Of course.’ Espartero nodded. ‘How else would I make a living?’

  ‘I don’t know, take in paying guests maybe?’

  ‘You’ve seen the pensión. Would you stay here?’

  ‘No, but then I’m choosy.’

  Espartero poured them coffee. ‘I thought Señorita Galíndez and Señorita Morente were potential guests when they came here but they were less than impressed, I could tell. Particularly Señorita Galíndez.’

  ‘No doubt. What was her problem this time?’

  ‘There were a couple of things she disliked about the room I showed them. It was her own fault: she said she wanted to see the room Señor Guzmán used.’

  ‘And what was wrong with it?’

  Espartero took a deep breath. ‘There was a bullet hole in one wall and the cleaner had made a mess of cleaning up some blood on the floor.’ He shrugged. ‘The cleaner was a gypsy, unskilled, but trustworthy. You can’t have everything.’

  Sancho’s face set with concentration. ‘So Guzmán stayed here? Was that recently?’

  ‘Not really. It was 1982.’

  ‘But you met him?’

  ‘Indeed so. In fact, he was the one who gave me the pensión. There’d been an accident, necessitating a sudden change of owner.’

  ‘I wonder if it was the same Guzmán I know.’ Sancho took a noisy swig of coffee. ‘Big guy, bald and violent?’

  ‘More or less, though the man I knew had rather a good head of hair.’

  ‘A lot can change in thirty years.’ Sancho tore off a piece of croissant and crammed it into his mouth.

  ‘This place hasn’t,’ Espartero said. ‘It’s almost the same as the day I took over. Apart from the bodies, of course. Disposing of them was the price I had to pay.’

  ‘You’re a dark horse, amigo,’ Sancho laughed. ‘This Guzmán, did he drink whisky?’

  ‘No, brandy was the Comandante’s favourite libation, as I recall.’

  Sancho shrugged. ‘I guess we’re not talking about the same person.’

  ‘Speaking of strong liquor,’ Espartero’s eyes lit up, ‘do you think Señorita Galíndez would mind if I were to offer you a small glass of the hard stuff before you go to your safe house?’

  ‘Oh, she’d disapprove all right,’ Sancho grinned. ‘So I’ll have a large one, my little friend, though only if you join me.’

  ‘They do say it’s bad luck to drink alone.’ Espartero got down from his chair and went in search of the bottle.

  MADRID 2010, DIRECCIÓN GENERAL DE LA GUARDIA CIVIL, SECCIÓN DE CRIPTOGRAFÍA

  Capitán Torrecilla looked up as he heard the sharp knock on his door.

  ‘I came as soon as I got your message,’ Galíndez said, excited. ‘Does this mean you’ve cracked Guzmán’s code?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say we’ve cracked it, Ana. But we have identified a phrase in it.’

  Her face fell. ‘Just one?’

  ‘Don’t knock it. It means we’re making progress.’ He gestured to a stack of papers on his desk. ‘All that paper is my work on extracting this one phrase.’

  ‘Shit.’ Galíndez slumped into the chair by his desk. ‘I’d really hoped that—’

  ‘Patience. It’s a virtue, remember? Slow and steady wins the race, all that?’

  She shook her head. ‘Every race I’ve ever been in was won by the fastest runner. And I never put much store in virtue.’

  Torrecilla smiled. ‘Here’s what we’ve found. Three words: “The Western Vault”.’

  Galíndez stared at him. ‘Do you know where that is?’

  ‘No, do you?’

  ‘I’ve heard it mentioned, but I don’t know what it is. A bank vault maybe?’

  ‘That was what I thought. Want me to make a few calls, see if we can find anything?’

  ‘That would be great,’ Galíndez said. ‘I’ll call you if I get any ideas.’

  ‘You know where I’ll be,’ Torrecilla said and went back to his notes.

  MADRID 2010, PENSIÓN PARAÍSO, CALLE DEL CARMEN

  ‘And the bishop says...’ Sancho cackled, spluttering wine down his shirt, ‘I’ll have what His Holiness just had, but I’d like it peeling first.’ His laughter was cut short by a sudden spasm of pain and he clutched at the wad of bandages taped against his side. ‘Fuck, sometimes I wish I didn’t have such a well-developed sense of humour.’ He raised his glass, hopefully. ‘Any of the good stuff left?’

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ Espartero said, suppressing another wave of laughter. ‘In any case, perhaps we ought to slow down our intake of alcohol?’

  ‘I suppose,’ Sancho said, though he sounded doubtful. ‘I want to appear professional when Witness Protection collect me.’

  ‘Will Señorita Galíndez be accompanying them?’

  ‘I ex
pect so. She won’t believe I’m capable of getting into a car on my own.’ He shot a look at the little man sitting opposite him. ‘You don’t have a thing about her, do you? Because you’re barking way up the wrong tree if you have.’

  Espartero shook his head. ‘Nothing like that, though I do find her interesting.’

  ‘If you like humourless, flat-chested women with attitude, she fits the bill, I suppose.’

  ‘A rather harsh assessment. The young lady seems to be a trier, as far as I can tell.’

  ‘She tries my patience,’ Sancho snorted. ‘For two years she’s been popping up here, there and everywhere, disrupting my investigation. And every time, she’d get herself into a mess. It was infuriating. She’s got guts, that one, but fuck me, she can be stupid as well.’

  ‘Which of us can say we haven’t been like that?’ Espartero said.

  ‘So you’re really not interested in her?’

  Espartero gave him a scornful look. ‘Not in the coarse way you suggest. The truth is, I like to think that I have certain psychic inclinations. I sense things, from the other side.’

  ‘What, like in a crystal ball?’

  A noncommittal shrug. ‘There are many ways: the tarot, the shape of the head, coffee grounds and so on.’

  Sancho laughed. ‘I knew you’d worked in a circus.’

  ‘A travelling show. I had a number of roles, fortune-telling was just one of them.’

  ‘I have to ask: what do you sense about Galíndez?’

  Espartero’s face grew serious. ‘There’s a shadow over her.’

  ‘And that’s bad, right?’

  ‘Very bad, unfortunately for her.’

  ‘And what about me?’

  Espartero met Sancho’s gaze and held it. He said nothing.

  ‘That bad?’

  Espartero raised his hands. ‘These things vary but I’d say your aura very much resembles Señorita Galíndez’s.’

  With a groan, Sancho sank back into the chair. He gave Espartero a long despairing look. ‘I really wish you hadn’t told me that.’

  MADRID 2010, CALLE DEL CARMEN

  The sun was setting, filling the street with elongated shadows as Galíndez parked the car. ‘Aren’t you worried about getting a ticket?’ Isabel asked, seeing a No Parking sign.

  Galíndez shook her head. ‘We’re on guardia business.’ She tapped her watch, impatiently. ‘It’s eight fifteen, we should get a move on.’

  ‘We don’t want to miss your new best friend going off to the safe house, do we?’

  Galíndez gave her a wicked smile. ‘Are you jealous?’

  ‘Of course not, but you have to admit it’s weird the way he’s turned out to be on the side of the angels.’

  ‘I wouldn’t go that far,’ Galíndez said as they turned the corner. ‘Hey, what’s going on here?’ Fifty metres ahead, the road was blocked by a line of police, two deep.

  One of the officers came towards them. ‘That’s as far as you go, ladies, this is a controlled area.’

  Galíndez held up her guardia ID. ‘GC. I’ve got business in that pensión.’ She pointed to the dilapidated building, hemmed in by The House of Cod and Lush.

  The cop lowered his voice. ‘It’s a counter-terrorism operation, Agent González.’

  ‘Galíndez.’

  ‘Whatever. We’ve got strict instructions to close the road. That’s all I know.’

  Galíndez wasn’t about to back down. ‘Look, I really have to—’

  ‘You heard me. It’s more than my job’s worth to let you through.’

  Frustrated, Galíndez went back to tell Isabel what was happening.

  ‘That’s a coincidence, isn’t it?’ Isabel said.

  ‘Maybe it’s a part of Witness Protection’s strategy for moving him, I don’t know.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Isabel pointed at the line of police further up the road. ‘Look, they’re closing off the other end of the street now.’

  Seventy metres away, a couple of men were putting red bollards across the road. Galíndez frowned as she took her phone from her pocket. ‘I’ll call Sancho.’

  MADRID 2010, PENSIÓN PARAÍSO, CALLE DEL CARMEN

  ‘Two hundred fucking euros,’ Sancho grumbled. ‘You’ve got to be cheating.’

  ‘Have you seen a card up my sleeve or noticed a sleight of hand?’ Espartero asked.

  ‘No, but I’ve noticed you’re talking a lot. For all I know you’re shifting the cards around while I’m still trying to work out what you said.’

  Sancho was interrupted by a sudden buzz in his shirt pocket. ‘I’d better answer that and save myself some money.’

  As Sancho answered the phone, Espartero began counting banknotes onto the table.

  ‘You don’t say. How long?’ Sancho sighed, irritated. ‘How many?’ A long pause. ‘You never fail to disappoint me, Galíndez.’ He hung up.

  ‘Is there a problem?’ Espartero pushed the small pile of notes across the table.

  Sancho stared at the money. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘A refund.’

  ‘I thought you said you weren’t cheating?’

  ‘What I actually said was that you hadn’t seen me cheating – that’s an entirely different proposition altogether.’

  Sancho snatched up the money and stuffed it in his pocket. ‘That was Galíndez on the phone. Apparently there’s a crowd of police just down the road. Some counter-terror operation. Galíndez thinks they could be the Witness Protection officers.’

  ‘And what do you think, Señor Sancho?’

  ‘I think it’s best never to trust what she says. Let’s wait and see.’

  Espartero gave him a troubled look. ‘What’s the worst that could happen?’

  ‘The guys outside are from the policía nacional. I don’t trust them an inch.’

  ‘I see.’ Espartero quickly put the rest of his winnings into his pocket.

  ‘Wait.’ Sancho reached for his phone as it went again. ‘Maybe this is Galíndez saying everything’s OK.’

  Espartero watched nervously as Sancho looked at his phone. ‘From your expression, I take it that’s not good news?’

  ‘You take it right, little man.’ Sancho lifted the phone for Espartero to read the text.

  You pay with your dead

  ‘That would be a threat, I assume?’ Espartero asked, loosening his tie. ‘Who from?’

  ‘My ex-employers. And it’s more than a threat, it’s a promise.’

  He winced as he struggled to sit up. ‘You’d better get going. Just walk out the door, get away from here and come back when it’s all over. Anyone asks you anything, play dumb. Galíndez can give you lessons in that.’

  ‘I think, Señor Sancho, that at my age, the time for walking away is long past.’

  ‘And what does that mean?’

  ‘It means we’re in this together.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid, little man. You haven’t even got a weapon.’

  ‘That’s true.’ Espartero turned on his heel and trotted towards the stairs.

  MADRID 2010, CALLE DEL CARMEN

  Galíndez glared at her phone. ‘Sancho’s not answering.’

  ‘Ana? Look over there,’ Isabel said, pointing up the street.’ See that car? Isn’t that Capitán Fuentes driving?’

  Galíndez stood on tiptoe to peer past the line of police in front of her. ‘I wonder what he’s doing here?’

  ‘Who knows? But the guys with the bollards are letting him through.’

  As the car slowly rolled forward over the cobbles, Galíndez saw Mercedes Fuentes in the front passenger seat, immaculate as ever in an expensive blouse. As she watched, Mercedes twisted round awkwardly, struggling against her seat belt, no doubt giving her daughters in the back a telling-off for something.

  Fuentes slowed the car, gesturing for the men to move the rest of the bollards so he could get past. Maybe he was late for some appointment, Galíndez guessed. The capitán was a stickler for punctuality and even a minor hold-up like this would be enoug
h to annoy him.

  She looked over to the pensión. Nothing was happening there. Perhaps Witness Protection were already inside.

  A sudden movement in her peripheral vision made her look up. There were people on the balcony of the building next door to the Pensión Paraíso. Maybe someone wanting to get a look at what the cops were doing. She narrowed her eyes, squinting against the evening sun as she saw the automatic rifles the men were carrying.

  ‘Look, Izzy, Witness Protection have got snipers on that balcony.’

  ‘They really must think Sancho’s worth looking after.’

  ‘That’s because he’s got so much evidence against the Centinelas.’ Galíndez decided not to mention that evidence was on the USB stick in her pocket.

  The Fuentes car came to a halt and Fuentes began unfastening his safety belt, clearly tired of waiting. In the road, the man with the bollards suddenly turned and disappeared into the crowd. Suspicious now, Galíndez glanced up at the balcony.

  Her warning shout was drowned out by gunfire.

  As the shooting began, Galíndez hurled herself at Isabel, knocking her to the ground, shielding her with her body. Around them, the sour whine of bullets, impacting on metal, glass and stone. Harsh rattling bursts of automatic fire, the gruff splutter of single shots. As she lay, pressing Isabel to the ground, Galíndez realised what was happening: the men on the balcony were shooting at the Fuentes family.

  Raising her head, she saw Capitán Fuentes’ car start to disintegrate. Pieces of ragged metal flew into the air, pulverised glass spilled onto the cobbles, steam and oil poured from dozens of holes in the engine. Around the street, the howl of ricochets mimicked the screams of fleeing bystanders.

  Galíndez rolled away from Isabel and aimed the Glock up at the balcony, gripping the pistol in both hands. Her first shot raised a cloud of powdered stone from the balustrade and one of the men reeled back, trying to wipe the dust from his eyes. She fired again and saw him clutch his shoulder as he fell, suddenly lost from sight. As the firing started to die down, she scrambled to her knees, seeking another target.

  She never got the chance.